


Avec moi

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kidlock, Light Angst, Mummy is a bit not good, Mycroft is a big softy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time Mycroft held the squirming, cosily wrapped bundle in his arms he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Then his baby brother reached out, grasped his finger and smiled. He knew then that he would always do everything in his power to make that smile grace his brother’s face as often as he could."</p><p>The story of two brothers who struggle to show it but love each other dearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avec moi

**Author's Note:**

> So I got to thinking about the Holmes boys as, well, boys. While listening to a melancholy classical music playlist (don't do it, much weeping ensued). This story is the result. 
> 
> This is quite a personal one for me, so I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Dedicated to my baby sister, who struggled but still smiled.

The first time Mycroft held the squirming, cosily wrapped bundle in his arms he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Then his baby brother reached out, grasped his finger and smiled. He knew then that he would always do everything in his power to make that smile grace his brother’s face as often as he could. 

Sherlock gurgled happily and gazed up with wonder in his bright eyes. Mycroft found himself smiling back at the baby. Of course, he thought, Sherlock would have no concept of who Mycroft was, he was just doing what babies do and copying faces he could see. There was something in those eyes though, an inquisitiveness Mycroft was immediately certain made his brother special from other babies. Tiny, silly, wriggly things. Sherlock wouldn’t keep still either, fidgeting and squirming in Mycroft’s arms. His baby fingers latched onto Mycroft’s hand and began to draw it towards his face, his toothless, slobbery mouth gaping open. 

“Ew! Let go!” he scolded as Sherlock sucked one of Mycroft’s pudgy fingers into his mouth, then pulled away a hand covered in baby slavers to wipe on his trousers. Sherlock frowned and pouted, glaring up at Mycroft as if he’d withdrawn a treasured toy. Give it a few years and he’d be folding his arms across his chest, sticking out his tongue and stamping his feet, thought Mycroft. He found he was smiling again at the thought, and the look of consternation on Sherlock’s face really was something. It was quite funny and Mycroft giggled a bit. Sherlock remained unimpressed and stuck out his lip even further, awaiting pacification. Mycroft giggled again, and he reached for the dummy on the side table to give the baby to dribble on in place of his hand. 

“Mycroft dear, don’t give him that,” came his mother’s voice from among the crowd around them. Mycroft scooped up the dummy anyway and returned to the sofa, hiding the offensive item in his sleeve. It’s not like his mother would notice anyway, she was too focused on conversing with her guests, who had ostensibly come to see the new addition to the Holmes family. No-one was really interested in the baby though, his mother had also published a new paper and that was the main draw. 

Mycroft looked back down to the tiny body cradled in his arms. Sherlock gaped up at him and suddenly gave an almighty yawn. 

“Mother, I think he’s tired,” Mycroft said, just loudly enough to be heard over the chattering of the gathered professors. “Very well,” his mother sighed, “you may put him to bed. Say goodnight first, don’t be rude.”

Mycroft mumbled his goodnights and cautiously carried his brother upstairs to the nursery. He nudged the door with his foot and it swung open, bathing the room in the soft light of the hallway. There was a crib, books on bookshelves, a high table and very few toys. The walls were painted a soothing shade of blue, and though it seemed welcoming, Mycroft didn’t feel warm in here.

He hesitated in the doorway, unsure of the proper procedure for babies’ bedtimes. Do they need bedtime stories? Should he tuck Sherlock in and kiss him goodnight? Ew. Maybe he should just plonk the baby in the crib, give him the dummy and go? He was still dithering when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. 

He looked up to see Nanny standing in the doorway beside, smiling down at him as he struggled to hold onto Sherlock. For such a slight little thing, he was starting to feel rather heavy. Nanny held out her arms and Mycroft carefully transferred the sleeping bundle to her safe hold. She walked into the room towards the crib, beckoning him to follow. He watched as she laid Sherlock gently into the crib, then she tugged on his sleeve and he sheepishly took out the dummy he had concealed there. She nodded to him and he reached over to give it to the baby. 

“There now,” she said softly as Sherlock latched on immediately and sighed contentedly in his slumber. Mycroft found he was smiling all over again. Nanny returned his smile but hers was tinged with sadness. She reached down and stroked Sherlock’s head.

“You have to be careful, you see, “ she said softly, “there’s so much that’s fragile, so much to know and so much to see in the world. But there’s also so much to be seen too, some of it good, and some of it less so. You have to watch out for it, Myc, for what you can see and what you can’t. Do you understand?” 

Mycroft thought about her words for a moment, then nodded seriously. Nanny laughed quietly, ruffling his hair and dropping a kiss into his hair. She smoothed it over and squeezed his shoulder as she left the room. 

Mycroft stayed a little longer, thinking about what she’d said and watching his already beloved baby brother sleep peacefully. 

******  
Mycroft was at the big table in the kitchen doing his homework when he heard Sherlock come home from school. The front door banged open, then his mother’s voice called out harshly. The sound of small feet stomping up the stairs, then another door banged. His mother shouted out again, but Mycroft was no longer listening to the words. He was concentrated on the sounds coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. There were none. 

His mother flounced into the kitchen and stood in front of the drinks cabinet, her head bowed and her hand on her forehead. Then just as abruptly she turned around and stormed out again, slamming the door to her office behind her with finality. 

Mycroft turned back to his homework. He liked history and maths and physics, but music was definitely his favourite subject. His teacher had been very encouraging, asking to see his notes and giving him hints and pointers to improve his composition. Mother, of course, had not approved of such a frivolous use of learning time, and he had had to drop the subject in favour of more suitable academic pursuits. 

Sometimes though, when he couldn’t sleep, Mycroft would sneak out his manuscript from its hiding place under his bed and sit at the window with it resting in his lap. Then he would close his eyes and picture everything he saw in his mind while sleeping. He would take out his pencils from the small wooden box Nanny had given him before she had passed, and would set about writing down what he had seen in his mind’s eye. He could see so much in his mind, but in his sleep his imagination was free to wander and roam as far as it could. He kept his sheet music in the wooden box with his pencils, feeling somehow that Nanny would see them and she would like them too, be comforted by them as he was. He liked those pieces the most, the ones which captured his dreams, bright, vivid, full of colour and life. 

Mycroft finished his homework quickly (it was far too simple and not challenging enough, he would have to request the school board advance him one or two years, again), and left his books and notes on the table. He left the kitchen and crept past his mother’s office to head upstairs to his brother’s bedroom. 

He paused outside the door to listen. Sure enough, there was a soft sniffling sound coming from within. He opened the door and stepped inside, silently closing it behind him. 

Sherlock was lying on his bed, curled into a ball on his side. He was clutching his pillow tightly to his chest, burying his face in it to stifle the sounds of his crying. He body was shuddering as he sobbed quietly. 

Mycroft crossed the room and sat down at the head of the bed. As he felt the mattress dip beneath his brother’s weight, Sherlock curled up tighter into his pillow. A sharp tugging sensation pulled in Mycroft’s chest and he stretched out a hand to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock suddenly stopped sniffling. He turned to face his brother and tilted his head in question. 

Before Mycroft could respond however, Sherlock sat bolt upright and dived towards him, throwing his arms out and grasping onto Mycroft’s school blazer and shirt. Startled, Mycroft leaned back slightly and tried to see over the cloud of dark, fluffy curls now attached to his chest. He felt Sherlock stiffen in fear, and the tugging in his chest became fiercer. He couldn’t bring himself to push Sherlock away, so instead he wrapped his arms around the small body and rested his head lightly against those wayward curls. Sherlock’s posture softened and his sniffles finally died away as Mycroft lifted one hand to stroke over Sherlock’s head. 

Though he knew if they were caught by Mother they would be unceremoniously separated and sent to bed without any dinner, but he didn’t care. He stayed there with Sherlock, huddled together on the bed, even as his shirt began to dampen with fresh tears. Mycroft never asked what had started the argument with Mother, and Sherlock never told him. Mycroft could deduce the cause. He hugged his brother tighter to him. 

****** 

He was looking forward to going to university. The atmosphere at home had become even more strained as Sherlock struggled at school. Mother simply couldn’t understand, both of her children were of superior intellect and yet the youngest could not seem to focus properly. There was no problem with his academic work, he could retain all manner of facts, make fantastic connections and absorb new information rapidly, applying his new knowledge in ever more complex ways. But his interests seemed limited, he was often sullen and withdrawn, he was rude to teachers and students and spent most of his time alone. Sherlock’s wilful behaviour and disobedience at school had resulted in many a night sent to his room without supper, a punishment he seemed to relish each time it was dished out. Mother never commented on the bruises, and Sherlock refused to answer any questions about their origins. 

Mother grew increasingly frustrated and turned her attentions to Mycroft instead. For his part, Mycroft found it difficult to keep up with her incessant demands on him; better grades, additional extra-curricular activities and so on. Just as quickly as he mastered the new fad that had captured Mother’s attention, she had moved on to push him in another direction, dismissing his achievements as she went. University beckoned to him, a place where he would be free to choose his pursuits as well as focus on his studies. He planned to go to to masters level study as soon as he completed his undergraduate degree. The youngest member of his year group to be accepted by the prestigious institution, Mycroft delighted in looking forward to his new environment. 

He couldn’t help but feel like he was abandoning Sherlock, somehow. He would only be gone a short time before Sherlock followed him to university though, his little brother being the most advanced in the school, despite his behavioural difficulties. Mycroft would write to him, make sure he was doing well, keeping up with his scientific studies outside of the classroom and maintaining the mind palace Mycroft had helped him craft to rein in his restless mind. 

Sherlock would manage just fine, Mycroft decided as he packed the last of his books away into boxes. A familiar, harsh sound greeted him as he went downstairs; Mother was shouting at Sherlock again. This time, something to do with therapy. Mycroft rolled his eyes; they did tend to wind each other up somewhat. This sounded worse than usual though, Sherlock had gone suspiciously silent. 

Worried, Mycroft set down the box of books at the foot of the stairs and listened intently. Mother’s voice was calm now but the words were no less angry. 

Difficult, spiteful, defiant. Casually flung into the air, each one a stinging barb.

Then came the words Mycroft had been dreading. Wasting his talents, his gifts, his brain. On something so meaningless, so frivolous. So sentimental.

Sherlock yanked open the office door and barrelled past Mycroft so forcefully as to almost knock him down. Mother watched him storm into the hallway and up to his bedroom, her face passive and not without a hint of triumph. In her hand was a sheaf of paper. The pages were crumpled and ruined, but the notations were still quite clear, despite Sherlock’s scruffy, slanting hand. Handwritten sheet music. 

She raised her eyes to Mycroft, daring him to defy her. Loathing his own cowardice, Mycroft shrank for her fierce gaze as she nodded sharply and shut the door once more. Sagging into the banister, Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. He was leaving tomorrow. He was leaving, and Sherlock would have no-one. 

Not since that disastrous attempt at family therapy had Mycroft felt so downtrodden and helpless. Mother hadn’t taken in a single thing the therapist had tried to tell her, believing as always that she knew best. She’d simply talked over him, ground him down with her forceful nature, proclaiming that is he couldn’t diagnose the problem with Sherlock then what use was he? Mycroft had gripped the arms of his chair, fighting back the urge to scream at his mother that there was nothing wrong with Sherlock! He just needs some assistance in adjusting, something to keep his relentless brain from tearing itself apart through boredom. 

Much to his lasting regret, Mycroft had not given in to this impulse. It seems his mother’s lessons on emotional flights of fancy and indulging sentiment had stuck, somehow. Disgusted with himself, Mycroft resolved that if he was leaving in the morning he would at least give Sherlock something pleasant to think of him in his absence. It may be that the damage to their relationship had already been done, but he would at least try. And from now on, he would keep careful watch of his brother, look out for him, and ensure that he would never again feel like he had nowhere to turn. 

Making his way upstairs to his brother’s bedroom, Mycroft was reminded of when Sherlock had been much younger, another fight with Mother sending him to his room in tears. The crying was long since past, but the hurt was still there in Sherlock’s eyes. No matter how well he disguised it, there was no hiding. For either of them. Just as he could read Sherlock, so Sherlock could read him. 

He stood before the door for a moment, lost in his memories, a hand on the door handle. Sherlock’s voice was muffled but his tone very clear. 

“Go away, Mycroft. Haven’t you got some diet pills to pack?”

Stung but refusing to rise to the jibe, Mycroft let go of the handle and instead turned to the room three doors down. This room was far away from Mother’s office and her ears that Mycroft was for the first time in his life glad of the enormous, sprawling, mostly empty house that the Holmes family name carried. 

He pushed open the door and flicked the light switch, wafting away a small cloud of dust as he did so. It had been many years since he had set foot in this room. He hoped what he was about to try would work. 

He sat down on the creaky stool and tried out a few tentative presses on the keyboard. The piano sounded just as soothing as it always had, and he soon lost himself in the music. The notes came swarming back through his mind, filling his soul and surrounding him so that all that existed in the world were he and the piano. 

He hadn’t realised he had closed his eyes until he finished the piece. One of his music teacher’s favourites. He sighed and opened his eyes, ready to close the lid of the piano. 

“Bach, Wachet auf,” came a quiet voice from behind him. Mycroft turned to see his baby brother standing behind him, a violin and bow in his hands. Mycroft smiled.

“Avec moi?” 

Sherlock nodded, raised his violin and bow, and together, they played.

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't exactly turn out as I expected due to a catastrophic IT failure (damn you to a fiery, burning hell with herpes, Microsoft Word), so I might write another one with a different twist to it.
> 
> If you're interested, [ this is the piece that Mycroft plays](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6J83f5Mblrw). It's one of my favourites too, Myc.


End file.
